Chicken Noodle Soup
by lovely44
Summary: As Sherlock and John navigate through cases, they both begin to feel feelings for each other, although they may not understand it yet. They both are mesmerized by each other; Sherlock by John's fantastic writing and John with Sherlock's brilliant deductions. Just some basic johnlock fluff:) alternating pov
1. Chapter 1

It was nearly noon as John Watson fluttered his eyes open to the sight of sun streaming into the flat and Sherlock's arm outstretched over John's face. He took a quick glance at his watch, then to the sight of Sherlock sleeping in quite close proximity to him on the couch. He reached into his memories to find scattered images of Sherlock throwing up numerous times in a bar, along with himself flirting with multiple desperate girls. While he was regretting the night due to the hangover resulting from it, he didn't remember anything specifically too embarrassing happening. _So basically, just another drunk night with Sherlock_ , was his conclusion.

"Christ, Sherlock. Wake up for God's sake. You're nearly crushing me," John groaned, and carefully lifted Sherlock's arm out of his face, accidentally letting Sherlock spill onto the floor. Sherlock groaned and glared up at John, sitting comfortably on the couch.

"Bloody hell, John. Thanks for the gentle wake up."

"Sorry, sorry." Sherlock grunted in response, and pulled himself up off the floor quite quickly. He dusted his rumpled coat and yelled for Mrs. Hudson to fetch him tea.

"So, what's it for today Sherlock? Do you need _another_ day of what you call rest and relaxation or are we accepting clients?" John was honestly tired of going out to clubs every night with his partner in crime. While he enjoyed spending time with Sherlock, the copious amounts of alcohol consumed was taking a toll on him. He was craving some adventure, after all.

"Neither. Why don't we try something different today? I need to get my mind off things." John sighed and rolled his eyes as he realized that Sherlock's mood always determined what the plans were for the day. Why couldn't John ever pick?

"Sherlock, what _things_ could you possibly need to get your mind off of? Irene Adler? Your brother? Moriarty, who might I add, is dead? We haven't done a case in _weeks._ "

"John, for the last time, I don't have time for these dreadfully boring conversations. And by weeks, do you mean six days?"

"Fine, whatever." The two turned their ears to the sound of tea mugs as they noticed Mrs. Hudson stirring up a cuppa for each of them. They wordlessly accepted the drinks, grateful for the end of the clattering as their heads were still at a dull throb.

"New coat. Shoes have not been worn in years but pulled out of the closet only for special occasion. They stay in a shoe box in order to preserve them. It seems that these shoes bring back memories and therefore you are meeting someone from your past. Lipstick has been attempted to be applied multiple times, but was wiped off in the end. Hairstyle indicates one of a younger woman, implying that you are trying to show someone that you have not changed. The scab on your left hand has been reopened, indicating that you have been picking at it and are nervous. A man from your past? No, clearly if he were male you would have worn a more revealing outfit, you are Mrs. Hudson after all. You are meeting a woman that you are clearly competitive with. Maybe she was a mistress? Ah, yes. Mr. Hudson had a mistress when he went away without you and you are meeting this woman because she is in town and wants to see you. Did I miss anything?" The speed and dexterity with which Sherlock deduced took John's breath away once again. He was fascinated with the way Sherlock's green eyes flickered back and forth as he observed every inch of one's being and the way his jaw clenched as he attempted to grasp for the answer.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson almost crooned in a comical manner. She just shook her head, and left for the door, out to go meet her husband's mistress for tea. The two boys slumped back onto the couch in unison; they weren't used to being left to fend for themselves without Mrs. Hudson to take care of them.

"Breakfast?"

"More like lunch, but sure why not. Maybe we'll see a potential client." John knew he was being obvious about his addiction to these cases and his current withdrawals, but he couldn't help it. He also knew he needed to distract Sherlock before he needed another fix.

"John, not everything we do together has to involve some kind of case. Can't I just want to spend time with you?" Color rose to John's cheeks as he was taken aback but also quite flattered. And maybe something else…

"Er, yes, I guess."

"We are best friends after all."

"Right. Best friends." John didn't know why he was disappointed by a sentimental comment from Sherlock. Normally, he would be pleased. He brushed the strange thought aside and grabbed his coat.

The two headed out to a new restaurant for chips, whose owner favored Sherlock for some reason unknown to John. As they settled into their chairs, the chips were immediately delivered to them. Sherlock and John reached for the ketchup at once, resulting in a brush of their fingertips. Sherlock lightly stroked John's hand before pulling away and allowing John to use the ketchup first. It happened so quickly, but it was not unnoticed by John whatsoever. Heat flooded into both of their cheeks, and John was filled with a longing for just another brush. Anything. The nerve endings on his fingers were electrified and while he felt silly for still feeling the absence of the light pressure, he knew the feeling wasn't going away any time soon.

"So…"

"Right then." Sherlock and John locked eyes, waiting for someone to say something, when a young female dressed in a burgundy coat came running to their table.

"Oh. My. God. Oh my God! John Watson in the same restaurant as me? I have so many questions. You are literally about the absolute best writer on the planet." John felt a grin spreading across his cheeks. He rarely found admirers and was typically overshadowed by Sherlock and his famous hat. He looked over to find Sherlock smirking, no doubt pleased that John was getting some adoration. John, however content, was upset about the interruption. He felt that Sherlock was in the mood to engage in what he called dreadfully boring conversation, and John needed to know what or who was bugging him.

"Sorry, who's John Watson? He some kind of blogger? I heard his articles are dreadful, why would you read them?" A beat of silence past as the woman blinked and covered her mouth with her hand.

"Oh my God. Sorry, sorry. Um, wrong person. Er, wow. Okay. Cheers then." The young woman slowly backed away, cheeks flushed with pure humiliation. Sherlock and John hid chuckles behind their coat sleeves and left the restaurant. As soon as they bursted through the doors, the giggles took control and the two were soon doubled over laughing.

"Her… her face!" Sherlock stammered, going into another laughing fit.

"I know it was absolutely priceless." They locked eyes once again, grinning at the joyous moment they shared.

"But, John, you really can't believe that rubbish about your articles being dreadful right?"

"No, of course not." He paused, realizing that with Sherlock, there was no point in lying. "Well. Maybe…"

"Don't be ridiculous. It's pure genius and you are perfectly aware of that. You're pure genius." Sherlock's voice quieted to a whisper as he said his last sentence. John adored how the volume of Sherlock's voice often changed and how that change could sometimes reveal how he felt.

"Did Sherlock Holmes just compliment me?"

"Don't get too cocky."

"Of course not, wouldn't want to be like you." Sherlock broke into a wide smile at John's quip and continued walking down the street, chips still in hand. John followed, as always, this time his eyes lingering on Sherlock's figure before catching up. He felt a sudden need to make contact with Sherlock's hand again, but he couldn't comprehend why. He decided against the action and returned to Sherlock's side, stealing a chip as he had finished his own meal rather fast.

"So, Sherlock. What did you have to tell me?" Sherlock stared at his shoes hitting the pavement and John stole a sideways glance to gage Sherlock's mood. It was always difficult for John, being that Sherlock was completely unpredictable.

"When did I say I have to tell you something?" John discovered that Sherlock's mood was completely out in the open. He looked vulnerable and almost grim.

"I may not be Sherlock Holmes, but even I could deduce that."

"I'm beginning to realize that one can't simply reject sentiment altogether." John would've laughed and mocked Sherlock, but something about Sherlock's tone made him think better of it. He sounded genuinely scared, like a child afraid of the dark. John wasn't exactly sure what to say, so he rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed it, comforting him and his vulnerability. Sherlock seemed grateful for the lack of words, and placed his hand atop of John's, causing John to sharply intake his breath. Once again, just touching Sherlock's hand took him by surprise by how it somehow made his insides jittery. John quickly removed his hand and Sherlock blinked out of the daze. They both ignored the short conversation and continued walking, but John would not forget how it felt to hear Sherlock truly open up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! Sorry I was too excited to post the last chapter and forgot to write a note whoops! Thank you so much for reading and I would love some feedback from you guys:) I'm rlly in love with this ship and writing this fic has taken away my writer's block so yay!**

The following days were similar to the previous, except John convinced Sherlock to take a case. It involved an elderly woman who on her deathbed revealed to her daughter who had stabbed her, but the daughter could not seem to get the criminal convicted, as he had an airtight alibi. Not the most intriguing case, but Sherlock knew that John was growing tiresome of drinking, and Sherlock was quite aware of his own growing itch to be high. Therefore, they turned to the one and only situation: solving crime together.

The pair soon fell back into their pattern of accepting all sorts of odd people into their flat to hear their stories. Sherlock did not enjoy the monotony of the process: wake up with a cup of tea, solve clients' cases within seconds, then go out for drinks with John. However, he did admit to himself that he enjoyed watching John's amazement every time Sherlock solved a case.

One evening, a man entered their flat in order to tell Sherlock about his dead sister's boyfriend. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but the clearly sick and contagious client seemed to be very emotional. Much to Sherlock's dismay, the man who Sherlock liked to refer to as patient zero, ran to Sherlock once he had solved the crime. He enveloped him in a sweaty hug consisting of tears and snot, as well as a few mucus filled coughs. Sherlock immediately pushed the man off him and out of the door, but it was too late, and Sherlock became one of the many in the area with influenza.

After diagnosing him, John went from the sidekick to a detective to the housewive to one. Sherlock was tucked into bed immediately and ensured that he would have chicken noodle soup by his bed as soon as possible. Outside of his door, Sherlock overheard a conversation between John and Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, sweetie. You go continue with your cases. I'll make the soup for Sherlock and get him some tea. He'll be better in no time. It's only the flu." Sherlock's ears perked up; Mrs. Hudson's soup was the perfect cure for his illness.

"Er, no. Sorry, it's just that… I'll take care of him that's all." Sherlock's face was incredulous at John turning down Mrs. Hudson's offer to take care of everything. Sherlock knew that John dreaded cooking, cleaning, and being around sick people; John was quite the germaphobe.

"Right. Of course. I'll leave you to it then." Sherlock could practically hear Mrs. Hudson winking. He still couldn't understand. Why would John possibly want to take care of him? He was still trying to understand this whole friendship concept sometimes but he knew logically that no human being would turn her offer down. He was disappointed to not have the pleasure of eating Mrs. Hudson's soup, but it made up for it that he was being cared for by John.

A few hours later, John returned to Sherlock's bedside. He patiently waited, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock, anticipating him trying the chicken noodle soup that he had slaved over. However, Sherlock's body ached and he felt as if he was unable to move from his position. He expressed his concerns to John who immediately nodded and went to spoon feed Sherlock, holding his hand under the spoon in case any of the hot liquid dripped onto the comforter. Sherlock eyed the noodles sitting atop the spoon which looked quite undercooked to him, but tried his best not to show any sign of disgust. With John's hand under Sherlock's chin as to not let anything spill, Sherlock tried a bit of it, and this time he could not hide his aversion for the chef's cooking. Without thinking, Sherlock spit the liquid out, much of it landing on John's face and hand, including an undercooked noodle. John just raised his eyebrows, an almost comical expression on his face.

"I take it you don't like the soup then." Sherlock looked at John with the most sympathy he could muster; he felt terrible for being so harsh on him.  
"I'm an absolute arsehole when I'm sick. I'm sorry, John. I really am." Sherlock felt that this soup meant a lot to John for some unknown reason; therefore, he put real effort into his apology.

"Don't worry about it, I tried it myself and spit it straight into the trash. I wanted to see what you would think." Sherlock was shocked, but relieved.

"But… but… I heard you talking to Mrs. Hudson. It sounded like making chicken noodle soup meant a lot to you, so I figured you'd be upset." Sherlock was confused as to why John was brushing this off as unimportant.

"Oh, Sherlock. I only wanted to take care of you. I don't care about the soup." John rested his hand on Sherlock's arm, a movement that brought hope flooding through Sherlock's chest. Except, he didn't know what he was hopeful for. His right hand trembled as he held John's hand, reminding him of the brush they shared many nights prior. Sherlock was unsure if the tremble was from the illness that currently had full control of his body, or something else entirely.

"I see. Well, in that case, thank you, John." Sherlock gave John a weak smile, and before he knew it, drifted off to sleep. The flourescent lighting in his room faded away and his guard fell as he floated away to his dreams.

When Sherlock's eyes lifted, he was greeted by John's pinkened cheeks. He was wearing a dull green knitted jumper that would normally be hideous to Sherlock, but on John it looked devilishly handsome. John's face was flushed with surprise, and Sherlock noticed how John snatched his hand away from Sherlock's torso, a look in his eyes indicating that he hoped Sherlock was unaware of his action.

"Why were you watching me sleep?" Sherlock maneuvered his body in order to inch his way onto his elbows, sitting slightly up and leaning towards John. He involuntarily grunted in discomfort and winced as the lighting made him dizzy.

"Well… um-"

"John, please turn my light off, it's absolutely dreadful. I cannot believe I ever installed such a high wattage." John practically raced to the light switch to put Sherlock out of his misery. Sherlock sighed in relief as he could already feel the disappearance of the dull throbbing behind his eyes.

"Sherlock… you've never installed a light bulb in your life."

"Oh. Well as soon as I've healed that will surely change." John chuckled and Sherlock assured him that he was not joking. The two sat in silence, staring at each other, both lost in the depths of their minds, or maybe in the sight of each other.

"Do you want me to leave?" John's voice was at a whisper; sometimes a moment called for silence, or near silence at least. Sherlock shook his head, groggy but still aware of the electricity coursing through his veins. John sat and Sherlock scooted over to make more room for him. John pulled up the covers and laid down next to Sherlock; Sherlock could tell that he was exhausted from the day of making soup, but he also did not want to get John sick. Eventually, he accepted the fact that his voice was too hoarse and tired to mention being contagious, and the two fell asleep together.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so much for reading! xxoo**

John woke up once again to Sherlock practically on top of him. John couldn't help but feel a longing to stay in this position, but he knew that Sherlock would need breakfast. Once John disentangled his limbs from Sherlock's he realized that there was no way he could avoid sickness now. For some reason, he felt abnormally calm about becoming ill since it was coming from Sherlock. Normally John would be disgusted by a droplet from a cough hitting his skin and now he was basically begging to catch the flu. He could not fathom what change could have possibly occurred within him but since he already knew he would get sick, he would be able to care for Sherlock without holding his breath every time he walked in the room. Then, when John got sick, Sherlock would be able to watch over him, although after second thought, John realized that was never happening.

John slipped out of bed and headed into the kitchen to fetch tea and leftover biscuits for Sherlock. He knew that Sherlock was in need of food and while he might refuse it, it was vital to give him some nutrition. John munched on one of the biscuits while waiting for Sherlock to wake up. He realized that Sherlock would wake up to John's watching eyes once again, but this time he didn't care much.

"John… water please," Sherlock croaked, his eyes only open a smidge. John set the tea and biscuits down and quickly filled up a cup in the kitchen for Sherlock. Sherlock accepted it gratefully, gulping down the liquid.

"Woah, slow down Sherlock. Here, have a bit of biscuit." Sherlock reluctantly took the biscuit and they both ate breakfast with their tea.

"John, that was very irresponsible and out of character of you to sleep with me last night. It's obvious that I'm contagious. What were you thinking?" Sherlock's voice was still hoarse, so when he talked it was merely a whisper. John could see Sherlock trying to understand John's logic and motivation. But as far as he knew, he had none.

"I was tired, I guess. And your bed is quite comfortable."

"No, it's not. I've complained about it multiple times to Mrs. Hudson." John shook his head, frustrated and wanting to drop the subject.

"Well, I thought it was fine."

"Okay, but why didn't you move to the couch?"

"Christ Sherlock, do I really need a reason for everything I do? Can't you just accept the fact that I'm going to catch the flu but I wanted to sleep next to you for some silly reason that even my own brain can't comprehend and move on?" John realized the gravity of what he had said and looked down. It may have not seemed like much, but he felt the heaviness in the air. If he made eye contact with Sherlock, he knew everything he had felt over the past few days, weeks, months, would be clear as day. After a long pause, which felt like an eternity to John, Sherlock spoke.

"John…" John locked eyes with Sherlock, but looked away almost immediately. It took everything he had to walk out of that room. He was afraid; he didn't know what his feelings were, and he didn't like not knowing. As soon as John walked out of the room, he saw Mrs. Hudson near to the door, pretending to dust some old painting with a crack in the frame from one of Sherlock's fits of anger. They exchanged a glance in which Mrs. Hudson looked disappointed in John's lack of action. John just shook his head and headed out the door, forgetting a coat.

As he walked, John realized that now his feelings were out in the open, there was no use in denying them. He only needed to understand them. He began by figuring out what about Sherlock made him feel the way he did. He thought about his lazy, tangled curls and the way they fell over his face if he went too long without a haircut. He thought about the way he touched his fingers to his chin when he was solving a case. His near perfect eyes and his flawless facial structure. His unspoken passion for the violin and the way his long fingers moved across the strings. But then memories of Sherlock shaking from the amount of drugs flowing through his system entered John's thoughts. The subtle fear in Sherlock's eyes some nights and the disappointment John felt when he saw the amount of nicotine patches sending toxins into his body. The body that John loved. He loved Sherlock, he always knew that. He had never thought about his love surpassing friendship.

John felt that Sherlock would never reciprocate. But he was starting to wonder if maybe it was possible. He thought back to a few nights ago when Sherlock expressed his concern for his emotions. Was he referring to feelings for John? John's mouth gaped as he strolled past Baker Street and he wondered if each brush of the hand and each newly composed romantic overture were signs of Sherlock's feelings. John did not doubt that Sherlock was gay; he had seen him secretly check out men multiple times when he thought John wasn't looking. The question was, were Sherlock's feelings directed towards him?

John kicked a rock down the sidewalk, bursting with emotions. Every person that passed him gave him a strange look as he had quite the expression on his face, showing joy, confusion, anger, and curiosity all at once. Most of all, love. John knew that he loved Sherlock so much that he would not be able to handle his drug addiction. Every time he saw Sherlock high, he felt so out of control and deeply sad. If John were to care for Sherlock as a significant other, he would not be able to look at Sherlock when he was so broken inside. It tore John apart every time.

"Good day," John tipped his head in greeting, regarding a man he often saw at the market.

"Evening, doctor." John smiled and something suddenly clicked. He realized he had to say what was on his mind. If he was rejected, Sherlock would most likely ignore the situation and things would return to normal. In fact, Sherlock was most likely the best person to be rejected by. John braced himself, turned around and found himself breaking into a run. The situation felt suddenly urgent, and as each foot slapped the pavement, it grew of importance in his mind. He didn't realize how far he had strolled with his thoughts and was beginning to realize how out of shape he was. That did not stop him from running faster, ready to go straight through the door of 221B and hopefully straight into the arms of Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you so much for reading! Sorry for the sorta late update. I'll be sure to try and get chapter 5 in soon.**

As soon as Sherlock heard the slam of the door, he allowed himself to panic. Mrs. Hudson stormed into his room angrily demanding to know what he'd done. Sherlock argued with her, wondering why she automatically assumed it was Sherlock that had done something. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that he hadn't done anything. He reached over to fetch his mobile on the dresser, crying out in pain as his muscles were still weak.

Sherlock thought about who to call. He couldn't confront John over the phone, it would have to be in person. He decided the best person in this situation was Molly. As far as he knew, she had gotten over her little obsession with him.

"Sherlock?" Molly sounded concerned; Sherlock never called her on the weekends and it was a Sunday. If Sherlock was being honest, he felt guilty for using her; he knew she would pick up immediately and that's why he had called. He never did any favors for her, but she was his assistant.

"Er, yes, Molly…"

"Did you mean to call me Sherlock?" There was the slightest hint of irritation in her voice which Sherlock picked up on. He deduced that she either had been in traffic or was sick of Sherlock's bullshit. Both were feasible possibilities.

"Yes. Actually, I had a question. It's sort of… personal." Sherlock was surprised to notice that his voice was breathy, he had a difficult time getting the words out.

"What is it?" Molly's voice softened, after hitting the realization that Sherlock was serious.

"Well, you see, John kind of professed his love for me and now I don't know what to do."

"What? John. Admitted he loved you?" Her voice grew higher in pitch, indicating excitement but Sherlock also detected a slight hint of jealousy.

"Um, not technically, but there was a… vibe." Sherlock felt strange sharing what happened between the two; it seemed beyond words to him.

"Hmph. Honestly, I always thought you would tell him first. Dammit, I owe Mrs. Hudson $20."

"What are you talking about? You knew about all this? And what do you mean I would tell him first?"

"Honestly, how did you not know about it? You two are madly in love." Her voice quieted at the last bit. Sherlock watched Mrs. Hudson enter and hover by the door frame, listening to the conversation, as Molly was on speaker. Sherlock could not hold his phone up from his weakness.

"What are you on about Sherlock? Go get the boy, you idiot. Oh and Molly, dear, you owe me $20."

"Oh, hi Mrs. Hudson!" Molly squeaked over the phone, causing Mrs. Hudson to produce a pitiful smile, obviously unseen by Molly.

"Hi darling. It's about time, isn't it."  
"It is. Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson is right. Just tell John how you feel. Obviously he feels the same. And I would do it quickly because well, time is of the essence." Sherlock didn't understand why, but he also felt that the matter was urgent. He pressed his fingers together as he thought of what to say.

"Oh, dear boy. Don't waste your time and go get him." Sherlock only now noticed that Mrs. Hudson was holding a coat, ready to push Sherlock out the door. That was one thing about these new feelings of his, they pushed away his observational abilities. Well, maybe the feelings weren't new.

"Sherlock, you're going to lose John if you don't get out of that door right now." Sherlock was surprised of the use of this tone in Molly's voice as she was usually soft spoken and nervous.

"Okay okay. But if you haven't realized, I can't get out of bed."

"Oh, stop being such a wimp." Sherlock rolled his eyes but had had it at Mrs. Hudson's remark and by some miracle, hopped out of bed and pulled on the coat. He did not change into proper clothes, that would require too much time and effort. He knew the only reason he was able to gain this energy was his love for John. He said his goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson and hung up with Molly, but not before sincerely apologizing to her. He wasn't sure for what, but he could tell by her voice that she understood.

Sherlock started to run for the door, but immediately felt light headed. He paused before grabbing John's cane by the front door; they left it there as a reminder of the beginning of their friendship. As Sherlock increasingly thought about it, maybe he was the only one left in the dark about their feelings for each other. People always seemed to assume that the two were a couple. Were they really that obvious? Or were people better at deduction than the detective himself?

As Sherlock hobbled onto the uneven pavement, he wondered why John would ever feel anything for him. Sherlock knew he was handsome, but he was the extreme opposite of charming most times and often had his sociopathic rages. John, on the other hand, was brilliant and not even aware of his own talents. That writing on his blog that he called rubbish somehow found its way to Sherlock's favorited tabs. He was enraptured by any sight of John, merely because of his wits and beauty. Sherlock sometimes even secretly did idiotic things just to hear John scold him. Sherlock truly was in love with every part of John: his jumpers, his medical profession, and most of all, the way his eyes lit up with amusement at Sherlock's foolishness.

Sherlock was for once in his life found speechless by his emotions. He was quite unfamiliar with the feeling, but the only thing he was sure of was the fact that he would do anything to be loved by John forever. Sherlock was frightened by these feelings, and even more frightened by the fact that if this did not play out the way he desired, his friendship with John could be ruined. Sherlock normally would not risk that for the world; he valued having a best friend over any of his other accomplishments. However, some things are worth the risk, he realized. So off he went, into the daylight with the hopes of confessing his love and limping straight into the arms of John.


	5. Chapter 5

**Okay guys... this is the last chapter! I hope it makes your hearts happyyyy. Thank you so much for reading xxoo**

As gray clouds started to inch toward the scorching the sun, anyone's hopes of a rare sunny day in London were squashed. Sherlock and John, however, were not paying attention to the impending rain and the dark sky, which began to rumble with distant thunder. Sherlock's breathing began to pick up because of his weakness while John found that he still wasn't out of breath despite running about three blocks already. One block more and John would be on Baker Street. What he wasn't expecting was Sherlock, hobbling toward him, looking quite amused at John's running.

"Sherlock…" John slowed to a jog, closing the distance between them. The tension was palpable and the humidity from the near rain only increased the heaviness in the air from all the unspoken words between them.

"John… I…" Sherlock croaked out words, but was unsure of what the right thing to say was. As his mouth opened up to speak, the sky suddenly opened up and heavy rain drops pelted the ground and the two of them. Sherlock was surprised at how unobservant he had been and even more surprised at his idiocy for not bringing a coat. He realized he was shivering and the flu only worsened it.

"You're shivering, Sherlock." John removed his coat and wrapped it tightly over Sherlock's shoulders; he was sweaty after all the running, anyway. Sherlock and John made no attempt to escape the rain to the nearby shelter, but instead stood under the storm as people ran to cover. John could not fight the urge to reach up and wipe Sherlock's soaked face, but realized it was no use as the rain would not let up. Once John touched Sherlock's face, his hands ended up in Sherlock's curls, as he tangled them even more. Sherlock's hands reached up to John's cheeks, resulting in almost no space between the two.

"I… love you, John. I love you." Sherlock's heart ached as he said the words he had never said and gave away his emotions to his best friend. John breathed out, relieved to hear the words, yet scared of what it meant. He didn't think any words back would suffice; Sherlock obviously knew John loved him back. Instead, John closed the little space left between the two and pressed his lips to Sherlock. John's hands were tangled in Sherlock's hair and Sherlock was grasping John's cheeks. Sherlock found that John tasted like sweat and rain which didn't matter to him. All that mattered was this… this was finally happening. The kiss was tender and passionate and the rain only intensified the situation. Sherlock's hands were now gripping John's collar and John's hands remained in Sherlock's curls.

They tore their lips apart only to stare into each other's eyes.

"John, I think I got you sick." John smiled and chuckled in response, kissing Sherlock once again. They both knew that they would never get sick of this, and Sherlock wondered how he would ever solve another crime when John was in the same room as him. And though tomorrow there would be more turmoil, for now in this moment, their lips connected and they were one. Endlessly and forever.


End file.
